


And So It Is

by miss_begonia



Category: The OC
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-07
Updated: 2012-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-29 02:29:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_begonia/pseuds/miss_begonia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not that things taste better or smell better when Ryan’s around (even though they do), or that Seth didn’t know he was capable of shaking from anything other than caffeine or orgasm before he met him, or because he knows more about himself now and absolutely nothing about Ryan.  It’s not about any of these things, but it’s not <i>not</i> about them, either.  If there’s one single solitary thing Seth has learned from Ryan Atwood it’s that there’s hard-<i>hearted</i> and hard-<i>assed</i> and most of the time we become both because we’re afraid of being close to someone and even more afraid of being alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And So It Is

It’s not that things taste better or smell better when Ryan’s around (even though they do), or that Seth didn’t know he was capable of shaking from anything other than caffeine or orgasm before he met him, or because he knows more about himself now and absolutely nothing about Ryan. It’s not about any of these things, but it’s not _not_ about them, either. If there’s one single solitary thing Seth has learned from Ryan Atwood it’s that there’s hard- _hearted_ and hard- _assed_ and most of the time we become both because we’re afraid of being close to someone and even more afraid of being alone.  


~*~

 

Ryan says he doesn’t like Bjork, but when Seth puts on _Post_ Ryan doesn’t say anything, even though he’s studying for a chem test and clearly needs his silence. Seth takes this as a great personal victory until he feels something pinching his ear and realizes it’s Ryan’s fingers, that Ryan is pinching Seth’s ear like he’s a naughty British schoolboy, and he can’t believe he’s such a bad judge of character and furthermore that he’s such a bad judge of his best friend.

Ryan looks at him, his eyes comfortably firm, and then lets go.

Seth turns off the stereo and spends the rest of the evening lying with his other ear against a pillow shaped like Tickle Me Elmo that Summer gave him one birthday to highlight his almost unfathomable dorktasticness. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to listen to his iPod, and no he was _not_ turned on by Ryan’s attempt at discipline. Not at all.

~*~

_  
_

Ryan calls Seth one night from a frat house. He’s drunk and his voice slurs into soup. He’s mumbling strange half-sentences into Seth’s ear. It’s weird and intimate and makes Seth sad because it’s the closest he’s felt to Ryan since that first night, the night he got completely and utterly toasted and Ryan totally had his back and when he woke up in the morning he had a hangover and a best friend. Neither of them stuck around but Ryan came back. _Ryan came back._

“…not sure…” Ryan murmurs.

“Ryan, I’ll pick you up, man. Where are you, anyway?” He’s already sliding on his All-Stars, fumbling around on his desk for his keys.

Ryan says, “Ackerman,” or something resembling it, and Seth shoots out the door, _Captain America to the rescue_ , but when he gets there he can’t find him anywhere. A girl from his 19th century Brit Lit class comes dangerously close to puking on his shoes. Seth stares up at the sky and it’s black and very sky-like and he feels like Batman as a kid, little Bruce Wayne, walking out of that theater in a dark suit and mini-bow tie, there just a minute too late, or many years too early, depending on how you look at it.

~*~

 

Ryan isn’t exactly shocked when Seth tells him he thinks he might be bi. He looks at him, sleepy-eyed and beautiful, and then smirks and asks him if he should congratulate him.

_Say something_ , Seth thinks, but he knows he means something _else_.

  


~*~

 

When Ryan tells Seth he wants to travel, Seth _is_ surprised.

“Where do you want to go?” Seth asks, curling his fingers around his ceramic coffee cup, imagining he’s a Tyrannosaurus, huge clamping jaws, tiny hands.

Ryan shrugs. “Dunno.” He crosses his arms – full bouncer pose, Seth likes to call it – and his eyes change color, aquamarine to navy, as the sun disappears behind a cloud. Everything smells like chlorine and laundry detergent in the poolhouse, clean and fresh and antiseptic and sanitary.

He turns one palm face up. Ryan has really nice nails. It is _so_ metro that Seth notices things like that. And it’s straight up gay that for a second when Ryan made that gesture he wondered if he wanted him to hold his hand.

Ryan’s eyes flicker up to meet his. “Where do _you_ want to go?” he asks.

Seth’s stomach drops twenty stories to lodge in the big toe of his right foot, and then it does backflips and jumps through hoops a la Cirque du Soleil.

“Definitely Paris,” he says, for no reason at all.

  


~*~

 

Seth likes Paris, sort of. They fly there after graduating from college, and Seth makes jokes about flying Virgin Atlantic that are in truly bad taste, and they watch three different movies they won’t remember later and when the plane starts its descent Seth pries Ryan’s fingers off the arm of the seat and holds his hand, and then just his fingers. Even though his palms are warm and probably sweaty, Ryan doesn’t pull away. When they land, Ryan waits for a full minute before letting go, and Seth’s heart flutters like it has wings of its own.

It’s true, all of those things they say about the avenues and the golden light of May burnishing marble and stone to a creamy butter finish. The people are sometimes kind, sometimes rude. Seth butchers their language and Ryan, as usual, says nothing at all, and they shrug, indifferent. _Americans._

But Seth doesn’t know if it’s true, what they say about the romance of Paris in springtime, because his romance is one-sided and one-dimensional, a paper doll fantasy, thin as plastic wrap and even more transparent and clingy.

Seth does know that Paris doesn’t improve Ryan, not really. Except maybe when they’re strolling along the Seine and Ryan’s shirt (ice blue button-down with a collar) flutters open and he’s wearing a wife beater but somehow it’s different, more white or less white or who knows but Seth can’t stop staring. His skin is golden and his hair is golden and he _is_ the golden boy and Seth feels too tall and dorky and gawky and curly-haired.

They wander around the Louvre and Ryan tells him random facts about old buildings, but Seth can’t help it, he’s drawn to the Greek statues, you know the ones, and all of them look like Ryan. He knows he’s gone crazy, but it’s true, they’re all beautiful and smooth and you can’t touch them, you can only look, you can only –

Seth balls his hand into a fist and smothers a scream and keeps walking.

Keeps walking.

One foot in front of the other, like you do.

~*~

 

Seth realizes that it may seem like he’s only attracted to Ryan because of the aesthetics, i.e. that he’s hot like lava and tamales, and also (he has been told, though he’s never experienced it himself) cross buns. It is true that this sort of _calór_ is hard to ignore, the ever-present ferret in the room, or whatever, but Seth is occasionally capable of acquiring emotional and/or intellectual depth, and there are other things to like about Ryan. Ryan is so different from every other blonde, well-muscled guy with a husky voice who spends his time surfing and talking about surfing and _Jackass_ and the latest masterpiece by Limp Bizkit or Good Charlotte or whatever other pseudo-grunge rock is currently filling the airwaves with auditory smog. Not that _Jackass_ wasn’t funny, because it was, but there’s only so much one can say about midgets and Johnny Noxville, and grunge really died with Kurt Cobain and people should just get over it already.

But, really, about Ryan.

Ryan is more than, and in other ways, less than those guys, and it’s all good and lovely and wonderful, even when he’s annoying and stubborn and angry and dense.

When Seth trips Ryan’s there – not always to catch him but to help him figure out what got in his way. People think Ryan’s quiet or shy or closed off but Seth can look in Ryan’s eyes and have a conversation with what he sees there, whether they’re animated and gabby or dead like the surface of a swimming pool, clear and blue and perfect but giving nothing away.

Mostly Ryan is that guy who does what needs to be done – back in Chino he mothered his mother and took care of what she couldn’t and tried to keep Trey out of trouble and didn’t complain about being the youngest, about being the one people should be taking care of. When Marissa Cooper was falling apart into many jagged, pointy pieces, Ryan took care of her and her elbows and every other part of her even though it was painful and he didn’t know her that well and she didn’t ask him to, ever. When Theresa got pregnant Ryan packed a bag and went back to Chino because she needed him, and it didn’t matter if the baby was his because it was _the right thing to do_ , and yeah, maybe Seth didn't appreciate it at the time because he's selfish and immature, but now he can see it objectively and he realizes how amazing it was.

Seth likes Ryan for all the things he is and all the things Seth isn’t, because Ryan was never required to become his friend but he did anyway, and in doing so forfeited his chance to become a Luke, pre-gay dad, or one of the cool kids at USC, or maybe the next Backstreet Boy – anyway, you get the general idea.

He could be king of the castle and the lakes and the oceans because Ryan _is_ that, is whatever it is that catches the light from the sun and holds it, a flickering pulse dancing in the palm of its hand.

But instead he hangs out with Seth, and Seth really wants to believe that means something.

  


~*~

 

Seth can’t figure out what the fuck to do with his life post-college, so he indulges his quarterlife crisis and gets a job at a bookstore and makes no money and bums off his parents.

Ryan, who will be playing the part of “model son” in this episode of “The Cohens,” has everything figured out. He applies for an MBA and spends time doing crap work at the Newport Group and saving money and then he takes out loans, even though Kirsten says he doesn’t have to, they’ll pay, it’s an investment, blah blah blah. But Ryan shakes his head and crosses his arms and that’s that.

For the first time ever Seth has a bout of sibling rivalry, wondering how he’ll ever be enough now that Ryan has set the bar the height of Mt. Everest, and he realizes he’s never felt this way before because he and Ryan aren’t siblings, not really. Sometimes he calls him “bro” but it’s not familial, it’s familiar, friendly and more than friendly. Just more. Strong and robust like Colombian coffee.

Before Ryan leaves for the East Coast and the Leonard N. Stern School of Business (Seth read all of the brochures because they were shiny and available) he and Seth spend their last night together by the Cohen pool, staring at the water and not talking, just staring, until everything is blue-black and shiny, a bruise. Ryan says, “I don’t know what I’m doing,” and Seth reels, emotional vertigo, spinning him like a dreidel, except with more torque, because dreidels suck at the spinning.

“You will know,” he tells Ryan, even though he has no idea, can’t possibly know, and who is he to give sage advice anyway, besides the best educated Barnes & Noble sales associate ever? But it feels right to say it, because he knows it’s what Ryan wants to hear. He’s beginning to realize how important that is – not to be right, but to be useful.

~*~

 

There are months where Seth doesn’t hear from Ryan at all. Those months look and feel like Jello, the disturbing 1950s kind with strange objects in it, pieces of fruit and candy and possibly small children. Those candy prizes represent momentary happiness, but most of the time he’s stuck in the endless, smooth Jello-ness and he can’t see anything but what’s right in front of him, what brushes against him or smacks him in the face.

One night his mom calls and she sounds tired, tired of him and his boring descent into mediocrity. Though it’s possible he’s projecting. He’s complaining about how bored he is with the bookstore and his manager’s bullshit when she interrupts him with a sigh.

“You can’t just wait for him, Seth,” she murmurs.

And that’s when Seth hangs up the phone and trips out the door to find a plane that will convey him out of Orange County and to the Big Apple. Bridging the produce divide. How much better can a metaphor get? Not much, that's what Seth thinks.

  
~*~

_  
_

If this were the Big Gay version of _An Affair to Remember_ then Seth would arrive in NYC and throw himself into Ryan’s arms and they would dance all night at the top of the Empire State Building and then – er – more than dance, perhaps a little horizontal mambo, and then they would move to Boston and get married.

But that’s not what happens, because Seth’s life is more akin to _Titanic_ – his emotional ship is always sinking because some idiot didn’t design him right, and every life hurdle is a fucking iceberg.

This iceberg is physically embodied in the toned, well-formed body of a dark-haired man who wanders out of the bathroom in boxer briefs and nothing else, brushing his teeth, only moments after Ryan opens the door to find Seth standing there with nothing to say.

“Seth,” Ryan says, and it’s as if his name is a complete sentence, subject and verb, maybe an adverb, too, for good measure. Ryan’s hair is a lovely mess, and it occurs to Seth that it’s seven a.m. because he caught a red eye and thus normal people are just waking up, but it’s only four a.m. in Seth’s world and he has no luggage, not even a toothbrush, and he’s not about to ask Mr. Gorgeous Brunette over there to borrow one because, hello, it looks like they already have way too much in common.

“Ryan,” Seth says, and that one word is a thesaurus, nine hundred possible meanings. Then he turns on his heel and walks away.

  


~*~

 

Seth goes to the top of the Empire State Building anyway, because Ryan is afraid of heights and he wouldn’t have liked it and _fuck him, fuck him, fuck him._

He folds his boarding pass into a paper airplane, all tight corners and clean lines. He tries to censor the thought but it broadcasts on through anyway: _Ryan would have liked that. The ironic symmetry._

To be fair, and Seth should be fair (no he shouldn’t no he shouldn’t), he has no idea who the random dude in Ryan’s apartment is, or what function he is currently serving. After all, Manhattan is expensive and Ryan is not rolling in dough and roommates – well, roommates generate rent, which is a good thing, even if you have to tolerate them sashaying around in their boxer briefs.

Which is another thing – who looks good brushing their teeth, really? Nobody, that’s who. Except maybe Jude Law or Jake Gyllenhaal because they’re so pretty they can pull it off. But Ryan’s roommate is no Jack Twist or Bosie, and therefore is not allowed to look so good brushing his teeth at ungodly hours of the morning when he should be in bed, or elsewhere, mostly elsewhere, anywhere else but in Ryan’s apartment, looking like he woke up next to him, ran his hands through his hair, kissed him good morning. Seth is sure he’s like a movie lover and has no morning breath, or body odor, and he never sweats or spits or blinks or picks his nose because he is Ryan’s Roommate. And so it is.

He drops the paper airplane boarding pass onto the floor and a guard tells him to pick it up. He is tempted to stick out his tongue at him but doesn’t, and considers this a sign of his growing maturity, or perhaps diminishing desire to do...anything, really. Maturity breeds apathy. Or vice versa.

Seth wants to shut his eyes and slam a door on the world and try to convince himself that Ryan was just surprised to see him there, that the tremor in his voice didn’t scream, _Shit, I’ve been made._

But Seth feels like he’s been lying to himself for awhile, and it needs to stop.

His phone rings then, Bright Eyes “The City Has Sex With Itself,” and Seth’s first thought is _I get cell reception up here? Go Verizon Wireless!_ And then he thinks maybe it’s his mom, since he did sort of hang up on her and leave the state and maybe she’s a smidge worried since she’s not the most relaxed person ever. But when he glances at the shiny casing his heart lurches because it’s _him_ , and if you don’t know who “him” is then you really haven’t been paying attention.

“Hello?” he squeaks into the phone, and the guard shoots him a look. _Fucking freak._

“Hello?” a voice replies, and it’s definitely _not_ Ryan, deeper than Ryan’s with a tinge of Southern twang, and Seth thinks _Is this my conscience calling?_ because you never know, it could happen, though somehow he always thought his conscience wouldn’t need to call his cell and would sound more like Sean Connery than Patrick Swayze.

“Seth Cohen?” the voice says. “This is Sean Madeira.” There’s a pause. “Ryan’s roommate.”

And just like that, Seth knows.

  


~*~

 

“So…you like coffee?”

It’s an inane beginning to a conversation, but what _do_ you say to the male lover of the man you’re in love with who you didn’t know was into guys like this one or, for that matter, guys at all? If there’s a Hallmark card for this situation, then Seth will…go out and buy it.

Sean, to his credit, doesn’t say anything. He just stirs his low-fat no whip mocha with his graceful, tapered fingers and stares at the table like the lyrics to “Louie, Louie” are engraved into it.

“So you’re Seth,” Sean says, lifting his eyes to meet his, and Seth notices they’re dark and deep, like hot fudge.

“Yeah,” Seth says. _Wanna make something of it?_

“Ryan talks about you all the time,” Sean exhales on a sigh, and Seth feels chills trickle down his spine, slow and sharp.

  


~*~

 

_“Ryan’s roommate?” Seth repeats._

_“Yeah,” the voice that calls itself Sean replies._

_“Why are you calling on his cell phone?” Seth asks, unable to keep the accusation from creeping into his voice._ You blindsided me, you bastard.

_“He left it,” Sean says. “He has class this morning. I don’t.” A pause. “I knew you’d pick up.”_

_Seth wants to punch something, preferably hard enough to bruise but not break his knuckles._

_“I think we should meet,” Sean says._

Why? _Seth thinks._ It’s not satisfying enough to say nah-nah-nah over the phone?

_“Really?” Seth says. “We didn’t meet this morning?”_

_“Not exactly.” There’s a drop of laughter in Sean’s voice. “You’re a friend of Ryan’s. A friend of Ryan’s – “_

_“Is a friend of yours?” Seth completes, rolling his eyes._

_“Is someone I’d like to meet,” Sean says slowly._

_God, Seth hates when people are nice. It makes it exponentially more difficult to hate them in the way that is necessary and prudent._

 

_~*~_

__

  
“So how did you meet Ryan?” Seth asks, as if he does this every day, has awkward conversations with non-friends with ambiguous sexual preferences.

“School. Class together.” Sean takes a sip of his drink, wincing at the temperature. _Yes,_ Seth thinks, _even your drink hates you._ “He wants to have his own contracting company, use his construction experience.”

Seth feels nauseous. He didn’t know that.

“Me,” Sean says, and smiles, very pearly white. “I want to go into advertising.”

_Figures,_ Seth thinks, and stirs his drink viciously.

“Just so you know, Seth,” Sean says, “I have no delusions about me and Ryan.”

Seth stops, mid-stir.

“I know I’m just a placeholder,” Sean says simply, “until he’s ready for you.”

Seth has forgotten how to think.

“He told you that?” Seth chirps.

“No,” Sean murmurs, “but I know.”

“And you’re okay with that?” Seth has just realized his hair is a mess. _Must…make…straight…_

“Sure,” Sean shrugs, though his eyes have faded to a washed-out corduroy brown. “You have _seen_ him, right?”

When he grins, Seth finds himself smiling, too.

~*~

 

It wasn’t instantaneous, with Ryan, a lightning bolt slicing across a clear blue sky, the way it’s described in sentimental novels of questionable pedigree. It was more of a slow burn, starting at the tips of his fingers and warming his chest and heating his cheeks. A salve and a match. Impossible combinations, just like Batman and Robin, Mork and Mindy, Beatrice and Benedict. Seth and Ryan. Ryan and Seth. Combinations, configurations that make no sense and all the sense in the world.

He doesn’t blush anymore but it’s always there, blood rising to the surface like it wants to escape, become part of the outside world that contains this person, this _Ryan Atwood._

On nights like these, hackneyed love metaphors crawl out of the walls and into the crevices of Seth’s mind. Hearts and flowers and rainbows. Songs, spirits, epiphanies. Dirt, too, earth, mud caking your face, smudging away tears that were never there.

Because Seth doesn’t cry. No.

He turns off his cell phone and tosses it into a drawer with the Gideon Bible and watches a bad movie on Lifetime about domestic violence but after a few minutes it makes him think about Ryan, and his hero complex, and about watching Lifetime in the poolhouse in high school, and about how Ryan once said he kind of _liked_ Sally Field, really liked her, and Seth laughed for so long that Ryan started laughing, too, and they laughed until they couldn’t remember what they were laughing about.

He flicks off the light and pulls the covers up to his chin and lies in the darkness, trying to meditate, to think about nothing, but all he can do is repeat the word _nothing nothing nothing_ like a mantra, and that just makes him feel like shit.

_Tomorrow is another day,_ he thinks.

_Fan-freakin’-tastic._

~*~

 

When his phone wakes him at two a.m., Seth can’t say he’s surprised. It fits in with the general queer Woody Allen movie theme his life has adopted lately.

“Cohen!” a shrill voice shouts in his ear. “Why the hell did it take you so long to pick up the phone?”

“Uh, because it’s rather early in the fucking morning, _Summer_ , and I was asleep?” Seth rolls over on his side and tries to focus in the low light. He thinks he might have been having a dream involving fir trees, ballerinas, and a fondue pot and oh good god that’s so disturbing he may need a shower.

“Where _are_ you, anyway? You totally stood me up for dinner!”

Seth winces. Yeah, so, the whole running to the airport to go to reunite with your lost love thing? It only works when you a) can actually reunite with them when you get there, and b) you don’t have a pissy ex at home who insists you have weekly dinners and hits you repeatedly when you forget, as you are prone to do.

Seth learns something new every day.

“I’m in New York,” he divulges.

“You’re in New _York_? As in City? You went to New York without me? Why was I not notified? What could possibly – “ Summer stops. “Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh_ ,” Seth says. His eyes feel like they’ve been rolled in a fine gravel breading.

“Well?” Summer exclaims, as if what she’s asking is so obvious he should be able to decode it at two o’clock in the morning after the worst day of his entire life.

“This is the thing, Summer,” Seth exhales. “I’m twenty-four years old. I work in a bookstore. I have no good friends that I didn’t make in high school. And I – “ His voice chooses this very cinematic moment to crack. He coughs to cover, but he can hear Summer smothering a laugh, because that’s just the kind of gal she is. “I just flew across the country to tell my best friend I’m kind of madly in love with him, only to find he’s shacked up with the next Hayden Christensen.”

There’s sharp intake of breath, then silence.

“Summer?” Seth is nervous.

“Oh, sorry, Cohen!” She sounds a little breathless. “I was just imagining Ryan with Hayden Christensen.” A pause. “It was very hot,” she informs him.

Seth sighs dramatically.

“ _God_ , Cohen, stop being so melodramatic,” Summer snaps. “This is not the Middle Ages. Your life is not almost over because you’re two dozen years old. And this is from someone who’s been using Oil of Olay anti-aging cream since she was _twelve_ , so you really should pay attention.” There’s a rustling in the background, and Seth imagines Summer adding ingredients to her cauldron, because she is the _definition_ of witch. “If you want Ryan,” she announces, finally, “go, like, _fight_ for him or something. I bet this neo-Hayden has nothing on you.”

Seth shifts the phone from one ear to the other. “You think I could – fight, really?”

“I think you could try,” Summer says. “And you could start by not pussying out on this whole telling him thing.”

“But – “

“Shut up, Cohen,” Summer interrupts. “I’ve never known you to lack in the things to say department, and in case you have, in fact, _met_ Ryan Atwood, you might have noticed he is not so much with the talking.”

“But, Sum –“

”And did you ever think,” Summer continues, “that since you flew 3,000 miles to show up unannounced on his doorstep that maybe _you_ owe _him_ an explanation?”

Seth can always count on Summer Roberts to point out his ineptitude.

It’s reason #486 why he loves her.

~*~

 

Seth wakes up to someone knocking _very_ persistently on his door. He squints for a few moments, hoping his Dirty Harry impression will scare away whoever is trying to invade his personal moping space, but it doesn’t work because there’s a door in the way, and his impression was never as threatening as he wanted it to be.

He flings open the door and is about to shout something worthy of Blanche Dubois when it registers who it is.

“Hello, Ryan,” he says.

_I’ve added a greeting. It’s progress._

“Hello, Seth,” Ryan says, and he sounds winded, like he just ran up the twelve flights of stairs, which Seth could totally see him doing, but he’d probably be more sweaty if he did that, and his clothes would stick to him like –

_And there’s the blush._

“I thought I’d wake you up this morning,” Ryan says, and it almost sounds like he’s flirting. But then he coughs and clarifies, “You know, because you woke me up yesterday.”

“You and Sean,” Seth says before he can stop himself.

Ryan seems to deflate, and Seth can see him curling one hand into a fist, his arm muscles tense and rigid.

“Do you want to come in?” Seth asks, because politeness is often synonymous with redundancy.

Ryan doesn’t answer, he just pushes past him, and when Seth’s arm brushes against Ryan’s chest he bites his lip so as not to reach out, reach out and touch him and _make him see goddamit make him see._

“Sean told me he talked to you,” Ryan says when Seth closes the door behind him. He notices Ryan has put a good six feet between them, so that even if Seth had wings they wouldn’t be touching. So considerate of him, to accommodate him and his potential wingspan.

“We did talk,” Seth says. “He seems like a good guy.”

“It’s not what you think,” Ryan says, and Seth feels his chest clench, a reflexive response to lying.

“Really?” Seth sits down on the edge of the bed, feeling the mattress give beneath his weight. “Because I think you guys are sleeping together.”

Ryan lets out a breath, a huff of air. “Well, you’d be wrong,” Ryan says. He looks up at Seth, and his eyes are glinting with something unfamiliar. It makes Seth itch. “What we do wouldn’t be described as sleeping.” Ryan runs his finger along the side of the night table. The motion sends Seth’s mind to bad places. He glances up, and their eyes lock. “Besides, we have separate bedrooms.”

Seth swallows.

“I thought you – would understand,” Ryan says when Seth is silent.

“Sure, I _understand_ , Ryan. I mean, he’s hot, and I’m all about the bisexual, right, except I’ve never _been_ with a guy in that way, so it’s really just in my head, and would I know what to do if the situation ever arose? Probably not. Because that’s just how great I am at this, at everything,” Seth babbles.

“You’ve – never—” Ryan stutters.

“No, I’ve never, okay?” Seth shouts. “Because all of this time I’ve been _waiting_ , like an idiot. Waiting because I thought, hey, maybe one day Ryan will wake the hell up and realize I’ve been his love lackey for, like – ever!”

It’s not how Seth wanted it to come out, but hey, there it is.

Ryan seems to be processing this. “Seth,” he says, his voice even, diplomatic, “you’re – like – my brother.”

“ _Like_ your brother!” Seth shouts. “Emphasis on the _like_! Respect the modifier, Ryan!” He stands up, needing more space for expansive hand gestures. “Rattlesnake may taste like chicken, but it is _not_ chicken, okay? I mean, I may taste like brother, but I’m –“ Seth stops, mouth open, then shuts it quickly.

“Taste like brother?” Ryan repeats, the words infused with a sense of wonder.

“I don’t fucking know, dude. I don’t know what I’m –“

But before Seth figures out how to finish that sentence, Ryan has him pressed up against the wall next to the night table, his hands in his hair, which is _still_ a mess, and he’s breathing against his lips, and it makes him shake like he’s never shook before, shake rattle _and_ roll.

“I’m curious how you taste,” Ryan murmurs, and his lips crush against Seth’s. All Seth can hear are lyrics to Al Green songs, _I can’t believe that it’s real the way you make me feel_ , and when Ryan drags his tongue across his bottom lip Seth stops thinking, period.

“This is good,” Seth says in the way he might extol the virtues of a really tasty potato salad, or perhaps a ripe strawberry, though Ryan is clearly neither. They’re both panting like they’re asthmatic, and then Ryan gives him that Look, the _I could just eat you up with a spoon_ Look, and Seth has to kiss him again, because it’s, like, required.

Ryan bites his lip and the pain seeps into Seth’s chest and meets the ache that’s been lingering there for months, years, his whole life and his past lives, all forty-five of them, even the ones where he may or may not have been a Buddhist, or a Labrador retriever.

Up until this point it’s been mostly lips and tongue and teeth but now Ryan’s pressing into him, his hip nudging against Seth’s thigh and Seth twists his hand in Ryan’s hair and presses his thumbs along the smooth line of his neck. Ryan shifts and Seth puts out a hand to steady himself and knocks over a lamp. Which, okay, maybe not so cool, but thrilling nonetheless because Seth always wanted to break furniture in a hotel, and so far _this_ rates far better than being a rock star or even Johnny Depp. Or both.

Glass may or may not have shattered but Seth could care less because his hands are skimming down over Ryan’s back and he’s being pressed against a wall and this is definitely the only time that this is okay, completely okay, phenomenally, fabulously, wonderfully okay. Yep, definitely –

“Wait,” Ryan says suddenly.

Except for _that._

“We should—” Ryan has to stop to catch his breath.

_I did that_ , announces Seth’s inner school girl. _I took Ryan Atwood’s breath away._

“We should – maybe – talk about this,” Ryan says.

“You know, Ryan, I am usually very much about the talking, but, funny thing—”

Ryan’s hand, which had been clasped around Seth’s arm, travels up his sleeve and squeezes his shoulder. Seth is abruptly reminded of their proximity, of how Ryan’s other hand has settled on his hip and Ryan’s leg is wedged between his and their _ankles_ are touching, or would be touching, if there were not blue jeans involved, and normally Seth would thank the Lord for Ryan’s 501s but right now –

“Seth,” Ryan says, and his voice is low and dark and sweet and sticky like maple syrup. “We need to do this.”

Seth wants to protest, to tell him it isn’t fair, that you can’t just _stop_ like this, screech to a halt when the vehicle is clearly moving in the right direction, but this would be one of the approximately five million times in his life that Ryan has been right and Seth has been wrong.

“Okay,” Seth murmurs.

~*~

 

One night during finals junior year, Ryan fell asleep on the couch with his bio book still open in his lap, his hands carefully folded over the pages. Seth found him there when he slipped in at two a.m., blurry-eyed and approaching complete incoherency after four hours wrestling with Milton wedged in a cubicle in the library. Ryan is not a heavy sleeper, a fact that Seth has frequently taken advantage of when plagued by early morning crises of conscience.

Though Seth was tempted to wake him to impart his extensive knowledge of _Paradise Regained,_ he stopped short when he saw his face.

With his eyes closed, light hair tousled and fanned out across his forehead, lips slightly parted, Ryan looked like Seth imagined he must have looked ten years before, before he discovered Orange County and the Dark Side and girls who spend $500 on a purse but can never seem to find money to eat. He looked young and comfy and warm and beautiful, beautiful in the way people are before they understand the way the world works.

But then Seth flashed to the stories Ryan had told him about Chino, about Fresno, about his dad drinking and shouting and breaking people and homes and his mom’s revolving door of boyfriends and Trey, always pushing, prodding, goading, mocking, and he realized something.

Before Orange County and the Dark Side and girls with $500 purses, Ryan probably never slept like this.

And Seth felt oddly proud, like maybe even if he’d given Ryan nothing else he’d given him that.

  


~*~

 

Seth wonders, idly, if there has been some law passed that requires that all of the pivotal moments of his life occur in a Starbucks, and his local representative just forgot to inform him of this development. Because, really now.

“How’s the coffee?” Ryan asks, after Seth has been staring into his cup for a full five minutes as if he wants to dive into it.

“I’m not sure there’s any coffee actually in it,” Seth says. “Who sits in a marketing room and thinks, ‘You know what this world needs? A cinnamon dolce latte.’”

Ryan smiles weakly, and pushes aside his coffee cup – black, no sugar, no cream, the way he’s always drunk it. No frills, no elaborations.

“So we kind of made out back there, in my hotel room,” Seth states. “And I was wondering – is this one of those ‘whoops, fucked up, let’s forget about it’ kind of things, or is it, like, ‘hey, why didn’t we do _that_ before?’” Seth waves his hand as if bestowing a benediction. “Feel free to think on that for a few minutes.”

Ryan sighs. “I – I don’t need a few minutes, Seth.”

“And here’s another thing,” Seth continues. “What about Sean? I mean, should I be worrying he’s going to kick my ass, or something? Because I did kind of just show up and—”

“You don’t need to worry about Sean,” Ryan mutters. “Sean and I are – it’s a very uncomplicated relationship.”

“So what you’re saying is you guys were just using each other for sex,” Seth translates.

Ryan’s eyes flick up and down Seth’s face, and he feels like he’s being read like a barcode.

“Roommates with benefits?” Seth tries again.

“Shut up, Seth,” Ryan growls, and _dammit_ , there really are very few things Ryan can do that don’t turn Seth on. It’s pathetic.

Seth makes a zipping motion with his hand, and takes a sip of caffeinated sugar.

“I met Sean in class and I needed a roommate, and he needed a place to stay, so he moved in, and then one night we were hanging out and it just kind of—” Ryan stops. He’s coloring like a four year old with a brand new pack of Crayolas and Seth finds this vaguely amusing and also heartbreaking. For someone who practically exudes sex from his pores, Ryan’s awfully embarrassed by it.

But Seth knows this isn’t so much about the _what_ as the _who_.

“I don’t need the details, man,” Seth says. “I get it, okay?”

“I never thought—” Ryan stops. “I didn’t think _you_ wouldn’t have—”

“My lack of experience astounds you, huh?” Seth says. “Funny, it doesn’t surprise me at all.”

Ryan slides his hand across the table to grasp Seth’s fingers in his, and Seth tenses, remembering plane rides and Ryan pulling him up from the ground and _you totally had my back out there, man,_ and _I was like a fish flopping around on dry land, Ryan. I was Nemo and I just wanted to go home_ and _I'll put a little Seth/Ryan time on the books_ and _Sometimes I think you talk just to make sounds. Well, sometimes I do_ and _I do think that from now on, though, we got to stick together because united, we're unstoppable, but divided – people get shot_ and _Dude, you're a Cohen now. Welcome to a world of insecurity and paralyzing self-doubt_ and _Do you want to play Grand Theft Auto? It's pretty cool. You can like, steal cars and... not that that's cool. Or uncool. I don't know_ and _You tell me, I was in Chino._

“Seth,” Ryan says, “I love you, man, but you’re crazy.”

“This is news?” Seth jokes lamely, but his fingers are burning up and Ryan is squeezing and he doesn’t care if Ryan cuts off his circulation as long as he doesn’t stop –

“Do you know what Sean said to me last night?” Ryan asks.

“Roomie, you’ve got yourself a very devoted stalker?” Seth guesses.

Ryan’s eyes darken to musty cobalt. “He said, ‘I get it.’” Ryan’s finger curves to brush over Seth’s knuckle. “He said, ‘I understand.’”

“Well, that makes one of us,” Seth murmurs.

“No,” Ryan whispers, and Seth can feel his voice in his hair follicles, under his fingernails, along the arches of his feet. “It makes two.”

 

~*~  
“Dude! Have you been playing this in your free time? What, you go out and learn how to purchase what’s left of the free world and then you come home and play Halo?”

Ryan smirks.

Seth shakes his head. “I don’t know, man. Cagey _and_ able to manipulate large automatic weapons? You tell me why I shouldn’t be scared of you.”

“You forgot mad sexy,” Ryan mumbles, and Seth drops his controller. Ryan, clearly an opportunist who plays dirty, eliminates Seth’s last life.

“I did forget that,” Seth says, picking up the controller and then placing it back on the floor carefully. “How could I forget that?”

Ryan stares at him, and without breaking the gaze, shoves his game controller under the couch.

“You know, before, when we were up against that wall in the hotel?” Seth says, and Ryan inhales sharply. “I kind of liked that.”

“Kind of?” Ryan murmurs.

“More than kind of,” Seth says, turning away from the TV and scooting forward until their knees are touching. “In the vicinity of very much, I’d say.”

“Really,” Ryan says, raising an eyebrow.

Seth reaches forward to brush his forefinger over Ryan’s brow, and Ryan stiffens, his hand clenching in his lap. “Really,” Seth says softly.

This time it’s Seth who leans forward, Seth who places his hands on Ryan’s cheeks (“Cold!” Ryan hisses, and Seth grins), Seth who brushes his lips against Ryan’s, gently and then not so gently. Seth’s tongue tickles his teeth and tangles with his tongue and then Ryan is leaning back and their bodies are pressed against each other and Seth can feel Ryan’s chest rising and falling and it’s so sexy and so scary, so so scary.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Seth tells Ryan. Ryan reaches up and brushes Seth’s hair out of his eyes, and when Seth wriggles against him like a happy puppy Ryan makes a sound somewhere between a gasp and a groan. _A grasp_ , Seth thinks, and suddenly everything in the world makes sense.

“I don’t know what I’m doing either,” Ryan whispers, “but I think I know what _we’re_ doing.”

_And so it is_ , Seth thinks, and also that he just might like this side of the produce aisle. He can see the last glimmer of light vanishing over the Manhattan skyline but his day is just beginning, _oh yes_.


End file.
